


Here's A Blanket For You To Share

by hairdye_silverfindings



Series: AP English IV Fanfiction [1]
Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Asgard, Asgard Scenery Porn, Asgard is beautiful, Comfort, F/M, I want to live in Asgard, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:54:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairdye_silverfindings/pseuds/hairdye_silverfindings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's waiting on a god, trying to live off old words, but Fandral can't bare to see her fade away.</p><p>He's waiting on a goddess, trying to live off old whores, but Sif's too blind to see his affection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's A Blanket For You To Share

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first 'creative writing' assignment I turned in, written in response to the beauty that is the new Asgard from Thor: Dark World. My love for Asgard and this ship might only be rivaled by The Fall. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, because I certainly did while I wrote.

Winter was not always beautiful; the snow would drift down upon slain bodies and silver blood, collecting in drifts that the children could not play in. The blossoms fell from the trees, and the water in the basins would turn to ice, and the giants would come and Asgard would fall into war. But the gods would always win, and spring would come again, with its golden apples and its fair water. But now, with a hard-won watchful peace over them, the warriors could take the armor from their straining bodies and the people could smile. Not that they had remained sober and solemn during the wars. The wars had never made their bloodfields on Asgard, and the people felt safe behind their Gatekeeper and the walls of gold and stone. Walls that giants had made.

There is snow blowing down from the sky, across the realms, falling gently and catching in hair and cloaks. There are children in the streets, playing and laughing, as their families watch and talk and all is well for now. The streets are lined with lanterns to light the cobblestones, and everywhere Asgardians dress in fur and velvet, wandering from one tavern to the next, trying to keep their fingers from freezing. It smells of apples and mulling spices and there is music drifting through the air, like snow and ash. It is beautiful, the city, lit up like this for the cold, as if it was an old lover. The city is inviting and peaceful.

She watches him walk away, draped up in his mystery and his sorrow, with snow in his hair. Her fingers tighten around the tankard of ale and her chest feels tight for a moment, the stone under her elbows cold and hard and biting. He is a prince and she is a warrior and they are meant to be together by the Allfather, but he does not love her anymore and she has accepted that. She just wants him to smile again. She leaves, going down the steps he has gone down and abandoning her tankard on the balustrade, but she turns right, toward the palace and he turns left toward her brother’s observatory. Her boots click along the stone streets as she walks, smiling to the others on the lane, her soldiers and their families, and other families she fights to protect. The weather is still mild – they are in Asgard of course – but it nips at her fingers and cheeks, like the mouths of little sprites and she waves her hand in front of her face just in case. Her cheeks are red when he catches her.

“Sif.”

She turns and sighs happily at him, in his green vestments and his flopping hair.

“Fandral, has the tavern turned your kind out already?” She grins and he grins back, leaning against something. “Have your concubines bored you? I should think you need new ones if that is the case.” He laughs and it sounds nice to hear Fandral laugh. They walk again, along the frozen streets, accompanied by flickering lights along the sides, and Fandral puts his arms around Sif and she leans closer to him. As they walk Fandral buys the pair of them hot cider to warm her hands and she takes it without complaint. Fandral is warm and he smells like the liquorice roots they would chew on as children and Sif forgets, momentarily, about her prince.

They stop at a section of the road where there are buildings at their back and a great expanse of shining city and then green and black mountains to their front; the roar of the water falls near them, but still off in the distance, playfully hiding like they would when they were children. Sif leans against Fandral, and against the stone before her, watching the city, the hand not wrapped around her cider following the designs carved into the stone. Fandral’s hand tightens around her waist and he brings his tankard up to his mouth. The city before them is made of cream colored stone and gold, with red roofs here and there, lights glimmering in the windows as families put their children to bed. Sif has seen most of the realms; she’s fought in them, slept on hard ground and in trees and caves; she’s been struck by beauty and awed by vast landscapes, and taken in by people of almost every race, but she has only felt at home here. There is a beauty to Asgard that she cannot explain, something in the rolling hills and the fog in the mornings and the clear crisp sunlight, something in the water and the air, in the very stones.

“You have been quiet as of late,” Fandral says to her looking down, offering a light smile.

“I have nothing to say,” she says.

“That is a lie,” he tells her. “You are far from the best at lying, Lady.”

 _He is concerned;_ she thinks and turns to face him, throwing dark hair over her shoulder. He takes her hands and shudders at how cold they are.

“Why did you leave you concubines?” Sif asks of him and Fandral shrugs looking out over the city again. There is a breeze, but it does not bite as he thinks of his answer.

“They bored me. I came looking for you, my Lady.” He tells her. There are less people on the street here and Sif can feel herself blush, pulling one hand away from him to tuck her hair back.

“Why?” She says and swallows. Fandral shrugs again. He has cider in his mustache. “I can care for myself.” Her voice has a harshness to it he has heard before as she turns to leave but Fandral’s grip on her is strong and she pulls uselessly at his leather and rabbit fur gloves.

“I do not doubt it Lady.” He says, steering her around to face him again. She stands tall and Fandral’s eyes gleam. They look green in this light and she can’t help but lean forward toward him ever so slightly. “I do not doubt that you can take care of yourself. I only ask that you stop trying to take care of Thor as well.” She looks at him with heavy eyes like the moons over them, before resting her head against his chest.

“It is hard,” she says, barely above a whisper. The wind blows softer, as if it is giving them privacy, “I… I do not know what to say to you Fandral.”

“Do not speak then.” he says, turning her face to look at his. “Let us be silent a while longer.”

“And then?”                                           

“And then we will go any place you want.”

Sif thinks for a moment, looking out over the river. “Remember when we were young? And we stayed the night on the plains?”

“In the cold? And my back ached for days after?”

“Yes.” She smiles “I want to do that again. Someday.” Fandral nods and puts his arm around her again and they stand watching and listening to Asgard until the sunrises again, reaching out over the stars and sky with pink fingers and tendrils of golden light, signaling the working men to leave for their jobs as Sif and Fandral retire, yawning to her chambers in the palace, content to sleep for days.

**Author's Note:**

> Commenting means that the apple blossoms will bloom early this year in Asgard, bringing life to the cold streets again.


End file.
